


movement

by faikitty



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Alcohol, First Kiss, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Other, Reader-Insert, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty
Summary: “What is it?” Lucifer asks, and you realize you have been staring at him. He doesn’t seem to mind; his expression is open, only honest amusement and curiosity in his raised brow. “Do you want to dance?” He extends a hand, and you take it.
Relationships: Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 223





	movement

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't think of what to do for Lucifer's ObeyMax day. then I found out July 6 is also National Kissing Day. so I decided to toss some of my favorite tropes at a certain sappy idiot who never thinks twice about what he's doing while drunk. take that liquid courage and roll with it, Luci.

Lucifer is drunk.

Or, perhaps, maybe he isn’t. Maybe _you_ are—or maybe you _both_ are. You have been drinking together for a few hours now: him, Demonus, the liquid shimmering like amber in his glass, and you, wine, dry and sharp on your tongue. The wine is from the human world; he offered it to you earlier, when you brought coffee to his study and found him deep in a bottle instead of a pile of paperwork.

“A gift that I’ve been holding onto for a while,” Lucifer said as he poured you a glass, “since I have been informed that Devildom liquor does not affect you. Stay and have a drink with me. It is not often that I have a night off to relax.”

So you did. You stayed, and one drink turned into two, turned into three, turned into four. The conversation flowed just as easily, from questions about how the Devildom compares to the human world to discussions about your favorite types of music, until you lost track of what you were saying along with the number of drinks. Lucifer nodded along, looking entirely sober but for the light flush to his cheeks and the way his gaze seemed to fall more heavily on you, drawn to your lips as you spoke, before he caught himself and pulled it back to your eyes.

He _wasn’t_ sober then, though, and he _certainly_ isn’t by now.

You _know_ Lucifer is at least tipsy, because when you ask him about his favorite composers he is on his feet in an instant, taking your hand and hauling you upright. He doesn’t let go of your hand as he drags you over to his record collection with an excitement he rarely displays. He peeled off his gloves some time ago, and it feels strange to have him touch you without them; you’re almost surprised to feel how soft and warm his skin is.

You’re disappointed when he finally releases you in favor of removing a record, but you do your best not to let it show. You lean in against him, peering at the darkened scene displayed on the cover. It feels like a Rorschach test. You aren’t certain what it _is_ ; it seems to shift as you stare at it.  Nor can you read the swirling script. The lines of the foreign, demonic language make your head hurt, make you feel far drunker than you actually are. You blink away for a moment to steady yourself, and when you look back, you realize you’ve missed half of what Lucifer has said.

“—a rare edition,” he is bragging as you glance up at him. “One of only three in existence. I would love to get ahold of the others, but I’ll settle for this for now.” He replaces it carefully, and the next several minutes are spent like that, with him pointing out his favorite records and informing you of their rarity and meaningfulness.

You do your best _not_ to look too closely at the covers of any of the other records.

Eventually, Lucifer reaches a record enclosed in a particularly well-worn folder. “This is my favorite,” he murmurs as he pulls it down. “The name doesn’t translate well to your language, I’m afraid. Let me play it for you instead.”

You follow him to the record player and watch as he lowers the needle. Instantly, the room fills with music. No words; only an instrumental melody, only the soft notes of a piano, the strings of a violin, a cello, pulling high and low, sweet and tender. When you glance at Lucifer, he is watching you closely, and you feel the music pull you toward him as well. That pull—it is always there when you look at him, but it is amplified now, with the alcohol and music alike thrumming through your veins and shining in his eyes. This song isn’t the sort you would expect him to enjoy. You feel all the more drawn to him for his love of it.

“What is it?” Lucifer asks, and you realize you have been staring at him. He doesn’t seem to mind; his expression is open, only honest amusement and curiosity in his raised brow. “Do you want to dance?” He extends a hand, and you take it.

“I haven’t exactly gotten much better since the last time we danced together,” you warn, but he simply laughs. The sound is more intoxicating than the liquor; it settles a fire deep in your chest in much the same way.

“That’s alright.” Lucifer tugs you closer and guides one of your hands to his shoulder, keeping the other held firmly in his grasp. “You can hardly expect to improve without practice. Come here.”

You obey, moving nearer to him so he can rest his free hand on your waist, just above your hip. His offer to teach you is an excuse, you think, for you to dance together. For you to be _close_. But you let him use that excuse, because you recognize the desire that prompts it and feel it reflected in yourself. Beneath your palm, his shoulder is broad and firm. The music fills your ears, his touch fills your body, and when he steps forward, his smile fills your vision.

Then you trip.

Lucifer catches you with a snort of laughter. “Distracted?” he asks, and your face burns.

“…maybe a bit,” you admit as you straighten up. You could blame the alcohol, you know. But it would be a lie, and he wouldn’t believe you anyway.

Lucifer hums in consideration. “You’ll have to come closer so I can keep you upright, then.”

Another excuse. You allow him to use it, too.

You drop your gaze to your feet as he draws you near. You are all but flush together; it is difficult to watch your steps, but you do your best, attempting to follow along with the count of the song. Your heart is beating too quickly to act as a metronome, but when you drop your hand from his shoulder to rest it against his chest, you feel a steady rhythm beneath your palm. One, two, three, four—and you move. A step forward. A step back. Your movements are faltering, but you do not fall again. It’s a start, at the very least. An improvement, however small.

“Look _up_.” Lucifer’s voice interrupts your concentration. He cups your chin between thumb and forefinger, lifting your head. “Look at _me_.” He releases you and twines your fingers together once more. “ _Trust_ me.”

And you look at him, because you trust him, you do. You look at him; you meet his eyes, warm and bright as the glowing embers in the fireplace. You watch as his lips curl into a smile, his amusement at your stumbling footsteps melting into a gentle sort of fondness. It’s easier like this, you realize. Easier to focus on the beat of the music rather than each individual step. Easier to focus on _him_ —on the smooth sway to his motions, on the reassuring firmness of his body beneath your touch, on the way that his hand on your hip is brushing against your bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. You’re still moving; _he_ is moving you, guiding you along with self-assured footsteps, every motion practiced. Gravity seems to shift; you aren’t certain if you could let go or look away even if you wanted to. Your eyes stay on his. His on yours. Two planets caught in each other’s orbit. When he twirls you away from him, you spin dizzily on your axis, until he pulls you back in to hold you all the closer.

“Better,” Lucifer murmurs, tilting forward to breathe the words against you, so close that his lips brush your ear. If he feels the unwitting shiver that runs through you, he doesn’t comment. He simply leans back again, only enough to gaze evenly at you. “I told you. Just trust me.”

“I do.”

Lucifer smiles—at your honesty, your words, this trust you have in him. And you smile too—at the intimacy to this moment. The undercurrent of happiness you feel radiating from him, pure and simple. Because he is being honest too, in his own way. Words may fail him, even with alcohol loosening his tongue, but his actions do not. His _expression_ does not, his gaze light and pleased. As the music swells to a crescendo, his hand drops from your waist to slip beneath your thigh, hooking it over his hip, and for a moment, you are falling backwards. There is a rush of air all around you. Then he catches you, his fingers spread wide between your shoulder blades to dip you low to the floor. A startled, delighted laugh escapes you, your eyes falling shut, as he holds you there for several seconds before pulling you back up. Your leg slides from his hip, and you stumble into him, his arm still braced around you to steady you and draw you close. You rest your head against his shoulder for a few breaths, feeling more than hearing the short, huffed laugh that leaves him too; and when you lift your head and open your eyes you see the smile still on his face, broad and uninhibited, the flash of unbridled joy in his normally measured gaze as it falls on your upturned lips and lingers there, and—

And then he is kissing you—

And his lips taste of wine, of Demonus, of the smile that still plays along their edges, soft and pliable. They taste of the purest form of want—his desire only to have you close to him. To hold you. To kiss you, just like this, until the alcohol has faded and you are drunk only on each other’s touch. You could lose yourself in his embrace, you think, in this kiss. His hand drops low, traces down your spine to curl fingers against the small of your back. Pulling. Pulling. Closer. Closer. Until he has pulled you as close as he can.

After a moment, Lucifer leans away with a quiet sigh. His eyes open slowly. They linger on your parted lips, your surprised gaze. He blinks. Frowns at your expression.

And looks abruptly away as his face flushes.

“My apologies if that was too forward,” Lucifer says quickly. He releases you entirely; the sudden loss of contact leaves you reeling and dizzy, as if all of the alcohol you’ve consumed has hit you at once. You watch as he scrambles for another excuse—a _reason_ as to why he needed to kiss you just then—and comes up short. He shakes his head and steps away. “I believe I’ve had too much to drink. I should—”

You don’t let him finish.

You grab his collar and haul him back down so you can kiss him.

It’s Lucifer’s turn to be startled. He stiffens; then he _melts_ with a pleased sound, a hum low in the back of his throat. His arms go around you once more as he leans into the kiss, fingers twining through your hair as if to keep you from pulling away. You wouldn’t, even if you could, because you feel the same want that he does, the same desire to have him close to you. You kiss him until you are both breathless, and once you are, you kiss him still, feel the heat of his mouth on yours—and after, when you are forced to part, feel the heat of his breath fall shaky on your lips. Distantly, you realize the record has come to a stop; the only sound is the beating of your own heart and your breathing as it mixes with his.

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” you murmur, resting your forehead against his.

“I wouldn’t ask you to—” Lucifer cuts himself off. “Oh. I see.” You feel his smile brush your lips as his voice softens. “In that case, I will ask you: can I kiss you again?”

It takes all your self-control not to laugh at the sincerity to the question. “Yes. As many times as you want.”

Lucifer gives a noise of consideration. “You might want to watch your words,” he warns, but the kiss he presses to the corner of your mouth is light. “We demons are not known for our ability to resist temptation, after all.”

“Good,” you say. You mean it. And when he kisses you again, it is simply because he wants to.

No excuses. Not anymore.


End file.
